


Samdhi - Two That Are One

by ultrapsychobrat



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-12
Updated: 2010-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrapsychobrat/pseuds/ultrapsychobrat





	Samdhi - Two That Are One

    
Samdhi – Two That Are One  
   
He stumbled against an awkwardly placed table, apologizing automatically to the man seated there. Why the hell did they keep these places so dark? But he didn't waste time with the obvious answer. This bar and hundreds of others like it were the shadow world of society—the meeting places of faceless men who needed the night.  
   
“Why don't you join me?”  
   
He turned back to the lone figure, peering through the darkness to distinguish features—middle-aged, maybe older, receding hairline, toothy smile, lonely. He shook his head and smiled impersonally. “Sorry. I'm meeting someone.” Only a small lie. He would be meeting someone, before the evening was gone. Right now, of course, he had no idea who, but that didn't matter. The older man shrugged and picked up his glass. He knew.  
   
Moving on, heading for the bar and its more brightly lighted area where the young men gathered, he felt a twinge of guilt or pity. It was a familiar sensation. One of these years he would be the man sitting alone, hiding in the corners, hoping the darkness would be enough to disguise the sagging lines of face and body, waiting.  
   
He slid onto an empty stool and lifted a finger to attract the bartender's attention. _The Finale_ wasn't as crowded now as it would be later; the stools on either side of him were unoccupied. They wouldn't be that way in a few minutes—he was never alone for long. Glancing in the mirror, he saw what everyone else saw when they looked at him; blond hair gleaming brighter than the lights which illuminated it; smooth skin tanned gold; body young and hard—the ideal, the dream, maybe theirs if they had the confidence to ask or were desperate enough.  
   
It was the desperate ones who kept him away from these places for weeks at a time. Once, years ago, he had let his sympathy gain the upper hand and had never forgotten the lesson learned. Because he had been young and strong, he had escaped without damage, but after that he had been careful to say yes only to those men who had no reason for jealousy. Which meant the pretty ones. But he had never learned indifference to the pleading eyes of the others.  
   
And of course, there was another reason—the one most responsible for his caution. He was a cop, the enemy, the embodiment of society's oppression. A paradox of existence he couldn't reconcile. What was he—a gay cop, or a cop who happened to be gay? The battle had raged for as long as he could remember, sometimes tangling with the question of whether or not he was even gay at all. He liked women, enjoyed their bodies, had even married one of the prettiest of them to prove.... What? That he could make it as a straight? He shook his head and sipped at his drink. No use going through all that again. Water under the bridge, as the old saying went. Too late to wonder or care.  
   
A body slid onto the stool at his right, and he glanced over to meet a pair of brilliant dark eyes smiling at him. Young, handsome, comfortable with himself and what he was. He let his gaze slide slowly and deliberately down the muscular torso—good build, probably lifted weights. Maybe. He wasn't in any particular hurry.  
   
“I've seen you in here before, haven't I?”  
   
The voice was strong and deep—he liked that. Nothing effeminate about this one. He met the brown eyes again. “Probably.” He smiled and picked up the threads of the game. “You come here often?”  
   
“Not lately.”  
   
Which could mean anything, but most likely that he'd been living with someone. Was he loose again, or just having a night out while his lover was gone? It would be better if it were the latter—less chance of problems. Anything more than a one-night stand was out of the question for him. Names and occupations became important, and he couldn't afford the trust necessary to make a lasting relationship work. No cop could, not if he happened to be gay...or chose to be.  
   
They gave their orders to the bartender, each paying for his own drink—no strings of any sort.  
   
“You live around here?” he asked, lifting his glass. Next gambit. He watched the dark eyes, waiting for signs of caution or nervousness. None. Better and better.  
   
“Yeah. Got a place over on Amherst. What about you?”  
   
“No. Just pass through here once in a while.” Keep it vague. Nothing to remember tomorrow. Set the restrictions of where.  
   
The handsome face smiled. “You don't look much like a traveling salesman, but I bet you could talk anyone into buying just about anything.”  
   
Invitation. All he had to do was accept. Not the fastest score he'd ever made, but not bad—he glanced at his watch—twenty-five minutes. Well, why not? This one would be easy, no hassles. Just a few hours of mindless fucking and a pleasant good-bye. That was all he was looking for, all he could allow himself to want.  
   
“Your place within walking distance?”  
   
“Three blocks.”  
   
He stood up, locking gazes with the other man. “Want to take a look at the moon?” A heartbeat of time, and the nameless body was standing, too.  
   
The brown eyes slid down his own body, assessing, and then smiled into his again. “Mustn't let all that moonlight go to waste.”  
   
Mutual inspections passed, they headed for the exit. He liked the way tight jeans hugged slim ass. The first tingle of desire stirred in his groin—this was going to be one of the good ones.  
   
Just as his companion reached the door, it was pulled open from the outside, creating a moment of confusion which resolved itself as they both stepped aside to allow the newcomer entrance. His first impression of the stranger was a mop of curly dark hair and a sullen long face. But as he moved, light caught in the eyes, flashing blue fire from their deep recesses. Beautiful eyes. A quick look and he was gone, making his way through the scattered tables with sure-footed agility.  
   
A hand touched his arm lightly, and he pulled his attention from the blue-eyed stranger, turning once more to his choice for the night.  
   
“You know that guy?”  
   
“Who? Oh...no. Why?”  
   
“No reason.”  
   
He stepped through the door. “Which way?”  
   
~~~~~~~  
   
He lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness, wishing for a cigarette. It was a filthy, useless habit that cost too much money and caused all sorts of horrible disease, and, God!, how he wanted a smoke. Raising his left arm he peered at the luminescent dial of his watch—1:20. Maybe that drugstore they'd passed was an all-nighter. He could get dressed, walk there for some cigarettes, and.... And what? Come back for one more tumble? Why? The guy was good—not superstar class, although definitely more than adequate—but he was just another body. Chris, he called himself. Real name or a half-truth like his own Stephen? Didn't matter...never would.  
   
Unbearably restless now, he eased himself from the bed, stood up, and made his way to the bathroom on silent feet. He'd need light to find his clothes, but anything bright would probably awaken the sleeping Chris. And suddenly he just wanted to get away.  
   
With the door half-shut, the bathroom fixture provided plenty of illumination for his purpose. He dressed quickly, making sure his keys and wallet were in place, and slipped out of the apartment.  
   
Once on the dark street, he drew in a great lungful of ocean-tinged air, and started back toward the Finale and his car. Free. The feeling of release flooded through him, quickening his pace. No entanglement, no regrets.  
   
It was almost two by the time he reached his car, and the sidewalk in front of the bar was filling with the late night left-overs—those who couldn't make a connection and those who preferred the game to the winning. Last minute arrangements paired off a couple here and there, but most went their way alone.  
   
He searched the group of men briefly, looking for.... Who? Not dark and sullen, surely. He'd be long gone, found by someone who wanted it dangerous. Street tough had been stamped all over that face.  
   
Unlocking the door, he slid behind the wheel of the LTD and started the engine. An hour's drive home faced him, and all at once he felt very, very tired, decades older than his twenty-seven years.  
   
As he manuevered through the light traffic of the surface streets, he let himself think about tomorrow for the first time since he'd left home. Promotion, new assignment, all the old games to play over again. Metro was a haul-ass division, the best in the city, everyone said. The cop in him was proud he'd been chosen to be a part of it. But changing divisions meant the whole trip of reestablishing the image—don't let the pretty face fool you, boys, he's as hardnosed as they come, and lock up your wives and daughters 'cause he's one hell of a stud. Yeah, that was him—supercop, superstud...superhypocrite. How long would it be before he could relax this time? Or would it be like that year he'd worked under Iron Mike? The man had been suspicious—always watching him, waiting for a chink in the armor. At first he'd thought it was because of his looks and quiet manner, but soon he'd known it was more than that. The constant parade of girls had done nothing to warm the cold steel eyes that followed his every move, nor had the 'manly' activities of baseball and bowling—he'd been captain of both teams. Iron Mike had known...somehow, in some way. For an entire year he'd stayed away from the bars, even during his vacations. It was the only time in his adult life he'd ever suffered the paranoia of discovery, and he dreaded the possibility that this new assignment would bring the nightmare back.  
   
Making the turn onto the onramp, he accelerated to merge with the north-bound traffic on the 405 Freeway. Maybe he was stupid to think a gay could make it as a cop. There were others, he knew—some he could identify, others were as well-hidden as he. He wondered how they coped. Did they also turn off that part of their lives while they were working? Laugh the loudest at the fag jokes? Discuss in detail each and every sexual encounter with a woman? Make up a few? He'd played all those games at one time or another, but lately the emptiness of it had begun to grate. He was a good cop, damnit! Why wasn't that enough? So what if he preferred fucking guys? That didn't have anything to do with his job, for Christ's sake. What did they think a gay cop was going to do—rape his partner in the dressing room?  
   
And there it was, the thing he'd been trying to avoid thinking about for the last three days—his partner. A cop and his partner were together more than a cop and his wife, if he had a wife. When they got along, liked each other, found interests they could share or just talk about during the long hours, it was great. He'd heard stories of legendary partnerships, the ones that usually ended in glorious tragedy—John O'Malley throwing himself in front of his partner of fifteen years to take the hold-up man's bullet; Mike Loggins tracking down and killing the drug dealer who'd wasted his partner of twelve years and then shooting himself. They were part of the folk history of police work. But he'd never let himself get that close to the men he'd worked with. Distance was needed to maintain secrets. It would be easier if he didn't like his new partner too much—no temptation to confide and no danger of wanting something he couldn't have...would never have.  
   
~~~~~~~  
   
Wool batting filled his brain as he forced himself to roll over and turn off the alarm clock. Shouldn't have had those extra drinks when he'd arrived home—not with today facing him. He groaned and flopped onto his back again, keeping his eyes closed tight against the glaring sunlight. _Get up and run off the cobwebs._ The mental order went unheeded as the minutes passed. _You're turning into a lazy son-of-a-bitch, did you know that? Move it!_ He drew in a deep breath and sat up, holding his head. “Shit!” Some impression he was going to make.  
   
Dragging himself out of bed, he fumbled into a sweatsuit and staggered outside. The morning air hit him like a dash of cold water, clearing some of the fog from his mind. Muscles responded, and soon he could feel the adrenalin washing out his system.  
   
Forty minutes later, showered and dressed, he gulped down his own version of instant breakfast and left. Metro was downtown, several miles farther than his old station house. Allowing a little extra time to get there wouldn't hurt first day out. Besides which, the traffic wasn't as bad now as it would be in another thirty minutes. Maybe he could figure out some way to do his workout after he got to town rather than before. Metro was too old a facility to have a gym, but there must be a private one close by. Have to check it out later.  
   
The sidewalks were empty at seven-thirty in the morning, the night people home hiding from the sun, and the day people not yet abroad. At no time could L.A. be called a pretty city, but now in the early hours it had a kind of serenity that let a person relax.  
   
The station house was also quiet and nearly deserted. He smiled at the desk attendant as he approached the oak counter. “Where's Captain Dobey's office located?”  
   
“Second floor, two doors right of the stairs. But he won't be in 'til eight o'clock. Can I help you?”  
   
“Coffee'd be nice. Is there a snack bar or a cafeteria?”  
   
“The cafeteria is reserved for police personnel only, sir. There's a vending machine down the hall.” He pointed to a set of double doors.  
   
“I'll try the cafeteria,” he looked at the man's name badge, “Officer Calkis. I'm Sgt. Hutchinson, new boy in town.” He extended his hand and smiled again.  
   
The older man shook hands firmly and returned his smile. “Congratulations. Hope you like it here. Where are you coming from?”  
   
“Harbor Division. Robbery.”  
   
“Good place. This one's better, of course.” He laughed and excused himself to answer a ringing phone.  
   
Ken Hutchinson glanced around the foyer of the building that had once been headquarters for the entire L.A.P.D., comparing it to the glittering chrome and glass of Parker Center. While he appreciated the efficiency of the new headquarters, the atmosphere of the time-worn old place pleased his aesthetic sense. It felt solid and comfortable, warm with the patina of age.  
   
The tension in his stomach eased some, making him realize just how nervous he really was. Metro set demanding standards, but already he had the feeling that those standards were maintained by cooperation rather than competition. Something about the place....  
   
He was still leaning against the reception counter when he heard Calkis say, “Good morning, Captain Dobey.”  
   
A large black man in a conservative business suit and hat was striding across the tiled floor, heading for the stairs.  
   
“Morning, Calkis.”  
   
Hutch pushed himself away from the counter, standing straight. “Captain Dobey?”  
   
Sharp brown eyes turned in his direction. “Yes?”  
   
“Sgt. Hutchinson, sir. I'm starting in your department today.”  
   
He watched the expression of polite interest change to one of close scrutiny and then harden. The warmth of a blush made itself felt, and suddenly he was angry. Goddamnit! He couldn't help the way he looked. Why did everyone have to assume he was some kind of dilettante playing at being a cop? All through the Academy he'd had to prove twice over that he was serious—best grades, best athlete—singled out time and time again for the roughest demonstrations, reprimanded unstintingly for the smallest error. Some of the instructors had eased up when they'd realized he could take it and come back for more. Others had only increased the pressure, wanting him to break, furious when he didn't. And here was Dobey, looking as though he'd been handed the booby prize of the century instead of a good cop. To hell with him. To hell with them all.  
   
“Well, come on upstairs, sergeant. The hallway's no place to talk.”  
   
The Captain turned away and started up the uncarpeted steps, his heavy tread thundering hollowly in the enclosed space. Hutch followed, picturing very clearly the kind of talk they were going to have.  
   
The office was small and crowded, a no-nonsense place of work. He stood silently just inside the corridor door, waiting. Dobey eased himself into an ancient desk chair that groaned alarmingly under his bulk. Removing his hat and placing it to one side of the desk, he frowned up at Hutch and gestured for him to sit down.  
   
“Sgt. Hutchinson, I'm going to be blunt. I don't think you're right for this job.”  
   
The words hit hard, even though he'd been expecting them. “May I ask why? I assume you originally approved the transfer.” He met the piercing gaze steadily, refusing to roll over and play dead.  
   
“Yes, I did, based on your written record. It's excellent. This has nothing to do with your qualifications as a police officer. But my department operates differently than most—detectives are more than investigators. They're also street cops, and I just don't think you'll fit in out there.”  
   
“Because of the way I look?” He kept his voice quiet, controlling the urge to yell at this unfairness.  
   
Dobey shifted uncomfortably, setting off a series of metallic squeaks and pops from the chair. He frowned and picked up a pencil, turning it idly in his fingers. “Partly.”  
   
“And the rest of it?” Dobey couldn't know, but suddenly he was reminded of Iron Mike, and he felt his muscles tense. “I think I have a right to know,” he said when Dobey didn't answer for several moments.  
   
“I'm sure you do.” The brown eyes lifted again, honest and concerned. “But it's not easy to explain. This is a rough area, cops are accepted as a necessary evil, if they look and act like cops. There's no margin given for any sign of weakness. If these people think they can take a cop, they'll try. And if they succeed, it's that much more likely to happen again. Do you understand what I'm saying?”  
   
“That I don't act like a cop. Which is interesting, since you've never seen me when I'm being a cop.” His voice was still quiet, but he could feel his temper slipping.  
   
“It's the aura, Hutchinson. You're nice, too nice...or refined, or whatever you want to call it...a target.”  
   
“What would I have had to do to convince you otherwise, Captain? Strap a gun on my hip and spit on the floor?” He stood up, the anger a cold pit in his stomach. “Or maybe a scalp or two tied to my belt would have been enough.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.  
   
“Now, listen here, Hutchinson—“  
   
“No! You listen, Captain.” He whirled, cutting Dobey's words short with an uplifted hand. “I'm sick of this stupid prejudice. I'm a damned good cop, but I'm not about to play some macho power game to prove it. I get results, and if that's not enough for you, then you can fuck this job.” He fumbled for the door knob, fury making him clumsy. Goddamn the whole fucking world!  
   
“It's enough.”  
   
The deep voice underscored with a hint of laughter stopped him. A game? A game he had somehow played correctly and won? Resentment rather than relief flashed through him. He felt used, manipulated.  
   
“Why don't you close that door and sit down?”  
   
The temptation to keep walking was great, but he knew he wouldn't. Compromise had become a way of life long before he'd realized that a repeated lie was more invincible than any truth. Another small part of him died as he turned back to Dobey. The man's eyes fell before his direct stare...embarrassed, ashamed?  
   
A large hand reached for the phone and dialed a four digit number. “Starsky? He's here...I don't care about that. Get in here, now.”  
   
The receiver was cradled with a slam, an awkward silence falling across the room. Hutch remained by the door, pretending that by doing so he had preserved a shred of pride.  
   
The other door to the office opened, bringing the bustle and noise of the squad room and.... It couldn't be—not him, not here.  
   
“Well, don't just stand there, Starsky. Get in here and close the door.”  
   
Dobey's rumble shattered the moment into fragments of motion and sound—soft click of door's catch, brush of tennis shoes on carpet, slim body moving casually to a chair, long face turning to him, eyes opening wide in a split second of surprise, lids dropping quickly to mask all expression.  
   
“Sit down, Hutchinson.”  
   
The words were senseless—another layer of confusion, blending with the rasp of air in his throat and the dull throb of his heartbeat. The world of night closed around him.  
   
“Hutchinson!”  
   
He dragged his gaze from the still profile and met the impatient eyes of his captain. “Yes?” Was that his voice? Calm and cool?  
   
“Will you sit down? I don't have all day. This is David Starsky, your partner.”  
   
Dobey gestured toward the familiar stranger, who was looking at him again. Beautiful eyes, cold like the sapphires they resembled, watching him, knowing him. Years of practice in disguise and pretense asserted themselves as he crossed the room and sat in the only empty chair. Dark and sullen, he had labeled him. Dangerous. Yes.  
   
********  
********  
   
A door opening on candlelit darkness. Two men waiting to let him pass. Meeting the pale eyes of one. Blond hair, a nimbus of gold, hoarding light. Beautiful face. Tall, powerful body. Heart-stopping familiarity. Anguish, unbidden, rising. Relief, bidden, forcing out regret. Hurrying away to find solace in dark eyes and night-shadowed hair. Refusing to remember....  
   
“Ken Hutchinson, Starsky,” Dobey muttered into the tense silence, rummaging through the files on his desk.  
   
“Hello, Ken Hutchinson,” he said quietly to the averted face. Crystal eyes turned to meet his gaze. Dear God! He was beautiful. Anger rose, and he looked away, frowning. A cop? His partner? This pretty boy who turned the world with a smile? Smiles that seduced and lied and—  
   
“Where's the Castle file, Starsky?”  
   
“What?” Except he hadn't smiled.  
   
“Joey Castle, that hustler turned blackmailer who was blown away yesterday.”  
   
“What about him?”  
   
“Will you get with it, for God's sake? What am I running here, a training class for rookies?” Dobey's face was thunderous. “I want to go over the case with Hutchinson so he'll know what the hell he's doing out there.”  
   
“Evans and Poole are working that one.”  
   
“You went out on it. Since when do you hand your cases over to someone else?”  
   
“Since you told me to clear today so I could show Hutchinson the ropes.”  
   
The brown eyes bored into him, searching. He met the stare calmly. Sometimes he was sure Dobey knew more than he should, but he was also sure he would never vocalize his suspicions. Besides, what did he have? A reluctance to work cases involving gays? Lots of straights felt the same way. The stereotypes worked to his advantage once in a while.  
   
“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”  
   
He shrugged. “Sorry.”  
   
Dobey shook his head and leaned back in his chair to the accompaniment of protesting springs. “One of these days, Starsky—“  
   
“Look, there's all kinds of things Hutchinson needs to learn before he goes out on a case.” He glanced at the blond cop again, surprised by the glint of humor he found in the eyes. A smile tugged at his own mouth before he remembered he didn't want this man's understanding, and he looked away again, confused. “Can we go now?” he asked, standing up.  
   
Dobey ignored him, focusing his atterntion on Hutchinson. “Do you have any questions?”  
   
“Not right now, Captain,” Hutchinson answered quietly, getting to his feet. “I don't know enough yet to know what to ask.”  
   
Dobey nodded. “All right, then. Get going. Don't forget to stop by Accounting. They'll need some information. And I'll see you back here before you go off duty.” He looked at Starsky again. “Both of you.”  
   
~~~~~  
   
The clerk in Accounting was young and pretty and obviously impressed by his new partner. And Hutchinson was playing the game with all the ease of frequent practice. White teeth flashed in response to the flirtatious remarks, light-hearted banter taking the place of the silence which had accompanied them through the squad room and down the stairs.  
   
Starsky stood to one side and watched him work, grudgingly appreciative of the faultless performance. No one would ever guess. This one preferring men? No way.  
   
“Marital status, Sgt. Hutchinson?” the young woman asked, veiling her eyes and interest with mascaraed lashes.  
   
“Divorced.”  
   
She smiled slightly, checking the appropriate box on the carbon-pac form.  
   
So he'd played that game, too. Poor woman. She hadn't known, of course. They seldom did, and the pretty boys never told, just used and discarded and never looked back. _She's going to get me a recording contract, Davey. This is the break I've been waiting for. Don't make me feel guilty about it. You want me to make it, don't you?_  
   
Perspiration beaded his forehead, and suddenly he had to get away. “Come on down to the garage when you're through,” he interrupted. “It's a red and white Torino.” Without waiting for an answer, he fled the room, making his way to the basement, ignoring the greetings of acquaintances.  
   
He slid behind the wheel of his car and sat, breathing hard for several minutes. He was his partner, a cop, nothing else. And why the hell wasn't he straight, trying to fix him up with his wife's ugly kid sister? So much easier and safer. It was a role he knew and played well. This was dangerous ground, mined and booby-trapped. How long would he hold out if Hutchinson put the moves on? How long would their partnership last if he gave in? And what the hell was he thinking like this for? This partnership wasn't going to work, no matter what. He didn't want it to. Maybe it would be better to end it now, before it got started. Go back up and tell Dobey he wouldn't take Hutchinson on. Reason? _He reminds me of Mark? He's gay and I want him and I hate him and I think I love him and he's going to fuck up my whole life and, oh, God! why did you do this to me?_  
   
A tap on the passenger window startled him out of his thoughts. Hutchinson's face peered at him through the glass, a faint, “Open up.” reaching him. He leaned over and unlocked the door, starting the engine as the blond seated himself.  
   
“That didn't take long,” Starsky commented without looking at him. He backed the car from its space and headed for the street. The routine of driving, patrolling familiar territory, brought a measure of calm. Let events take their own course—that was the only thing to do. Reaching for answers to questions that hadn't been asked made no sense. A day at a time....  
   
He stole a glance at the man beside him and felt his stomach lurch in shock. Sunlight had turned the eyes to colorless prisms, catching him in a million facets of refraction. He gasped soundlessly and gripped the steering wheel tighter, tearing himself away from the hypnotic spell of the other man. Jesus Christ! He was a man, ordinary, another guy in any bar, anywhere, nothing more.... “You ever trick down here, Ken?” Just like anyone else....  
   
“What?” The single word was little more than a whisper, disbelieving of the question it ackowledged.  
   
“You heard me. But I guess it was a stupid question. Your type doesn't go for street trade, does it?” No different, none at all.  
   
“Are you offering?”  
   
Carefully quiet words of insult, but he'd heard worse. “I don't carry that kind of cash.”  
   
“I take credit cards.” The voice was still soft, but now menacing. “Or don't you have any of those either, David?”  
   
 _What's wrong with a little fun, Davey? Besides, we can use the extra money._ “Shut up!” Pain ripped through him, shaking his voice.  
   
“I'm good. You'll get your money's worth, if that's what you're afraid of.”  
   
He swung the car into an empty curb space, switched off the engine, and turned to face the taunting voice. The mouth smiled at him, and he was reminded of the deadly beauty of arctic ice cliffs.  
   
“This is a little public, isn't it? Or maybe you're into liberation.”  
   
“What the hell do you think you're playing at”  
   
“Oh, are we going to talk first? That's always nice. My favorite color's brown. People into colors say that's unusual. What about you? Red?”  
   
The eyes were opaque now, cloud-shadowed pools, admitting no light and revealing nothing. He'd seen the same eyes in a hundred bars—emotionless, dead to everything.  
   
“You can knock off the bitch queen number—no one's impressed.”  
   
“But that's what you expected, isn't it? I mean, when the first question a man asks me is where I trick, I'm fairly sure he's not concerned with my competence as a police officer or whether I'm interested in anything besides clothes and cocks.”  
   
Something flickered in the pale eyes and was gone. But suddenly he was remembering crystal brilliance that robbed him of breath. And he knew the change was his fault, deliberately brought about, welcomed...wasn't it?  
   
“What do you want from me, David?” Softer now, frightening.  
   
 _Leave me alone...get out of my life...don't exist...stop looking at me like that...don't make me care...._ He shook his head and closed his eyes, rubbing at the tightness in his neck. “Nothing...I don't know.” _Your problem, Davey, is you're afraid to ask for anything._  
   
“Look, neither one of us planned this, but we're going to have to deal with it.” The voice changed again, persuading. “I'm a good cop, you know, if you'll give me a chance to prove it.”  
   
Starsky's eyes flew open in shock as a hand descended lightly on his arm.  
   
“I've never let my personal life interfere with my job, and I'm guessing you haven't either. We wouldn't be having this discussion if one of us were straight, which means it has nothing to do with our job.”  
   
The hand was removed and he shivered as though caught in an unexpected draft.  
   
“So why don't we start over—Starsky and Hutch? David and Ken belong somewhere else.”  
   
And, of course, he was right—the Marks and Kens of this world were always right. God created them that way. And the Davids? Well, they just nodded agreement and wondered why they were still so miserable.  
   
********  
********  
   
The soft notes of the guitar floated in the darkness, things apart from the motion of fingers on strings. He played absently, his mind drifting outward with the music, disembodied, seeking....  
   
A strange kind of energy moved within him, making him restless for something he couldn't or wouldn't name. The bars and their anonymous occupants held no appeal. Thoughts of the willing women who walked through his world only made him tired. Games. They all wanted to play games—the men, the women. And he was worn out with games. All week he had tried to win the newest one, knowing he didn't have a chance. There was no way Starsky and Hutch could shut out David and Ken. No matter where they were or what they were doing, the shadow of who they were followed, shrouding them in silence, making them afraid to speak or laugh or look or touch, revealing much too much and nothing at all.  
   
Common sense told him they were gambling with their lives. This week on the street had shown him another side of police work, law enforcement that demanded another kind of alertness and a ready knowledge of everyone and everything that moved. Wrapped up in their own tensions, sooner or later they were going to miss a critical signal from some creep and end up dead.  
   
Maybe he was a fool to go on pretending they could make this partnership work. Today had been worse than yesterday, and there were no signs the future would be better. But it was hard to let go of a dream, even one as old and useless as this. Because it had been a dream—two gay cops, dedicated to the job and to each other, an unbeatable team. They'd be so good that no one would care when their love was discovered. And it would be. That was part of the dream—acceptance and respect from the world. Except he'd learned early on the world didn't work that way—not the straight world nor the gay. If only he could cast a spell and undo those few seconds at Finale. Too bad he didn't believe in magic—it was midnight, the witching hour.  
   
His hands fell motionless as a knock sounded. He stood up, leaning the guitar against the couch, and crossed the unlighted room. No need to ask who, for although the weather was warm and clear, the storm-tossed ghosts of Odin walked the world this night.  
   
“Come in.” He spoke quietly to the silent figure silhouetted in the doorway and turned back into the darkness. “I've been expecting you.” The restlessness was gone, banished on the wings of truth. “Do you need a light?”  
   
“No.”  
   
He heard the door close as he walked into the bedroom and began to undress.

~~~~~~  
   
The cool, clean sheets stretched taut beneath him. He lay in the shadows listening to familiar sounds—slide of shirt from body, clink of belt unfastened, rasp of metal zipper, soft thud of shoes on carpet, rustle of discarded jeans. A moment of stillness, and a body was lying beside him—no different from a hundred others. All cats were gray....  
   
*******  
*******  
   
The long body lay motionless, waiting.... Warmth shimmered about him, an almost visible aura, defining shape—candle behind drawn blinds, inviting, compelling. _I've been expecting you._ He reached a hand toward the heat and then hesitated. Moth to a flame”? No! The pretty boy could make the first move, come to him. And then he'd know—no different from the others.  
   
“Still afraid, David?”  
   
The quiet voice fell into the silence, rippling outward in waves of darkness. Weight shifted, and he was drowning in living fire as the smooth body came to rest against him.  
   
“You want me, don't you?”  
   
Hands of flame moved over him, scorching his flesh, wringing a small moan of pain from his constricted throat.  
   
“Did you bring your credit card, David?”  
   
The open mouth descended on his chest, and he gasped, unable to control the flood of desire that poured through him. Another groan escaped as his hands moved to claim this demon, god, tormentor, bringer of life and death and....  
   
Soft laughter mocked him, and he was holding another, younger body in his arms, bleeding from a hundred careless wounds, needing and wanting and hating. _He's a good fuck, Davey. You should try him sometime. Pays good, too._  
   
Anger, old and bitter, rose in him, borne on a tide of nausea. He shoved the larger man away, scrambling from the bed. Oh, god! He was going to be sick, and he didn't know where the bathroom was. Sweat beaded on his face as he stood swaying in the darkness.  
   
A lamp snapped to sudden life, revealing his surroundings. He stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door and fumbling for the light switched. White tile and porcelain gleamed cold and bright, hurting his eyes. But the sickness had abated, leaving him panting and chilled to the bone. He leaned against the door, shivering, trying desperately to glue together the fragments of his emotions. Ken Hutchinson wasn't Mark, didn't even look like him except for a superficial coloring. Why? _You want me, don't you?_ Empty words, empty dreams....  
   
Two sharp raps startled him away from the door.  
   
“Are you okay?”  
   
The words were muffled, lacking tone or intent...empty. “Yeah, fine.”  
   
“Sure?”  
   
“Yes, just leave me alone.” _Haven't you done enough?_  
   
He turned on the faucets in the sink, splashed water over his face, and reached for a towel. The clean scents of soap and sun invaded his senses—the same scent that clung to Hutchinson, the scent he had smelled all week. He crushed the towel between his hands—they were shaking.  
   
*******  
*******  
   
How long was he going to stay in there? And what the hell had happened, anyway?  
   
The cold beer slid down his throat, and he leaned back, fighting the confusion that threatened on the edge of anger.  
   
Why was Starsky here? No, not why—he knew why. Had known since the first moment their eyes had met in the doorway of the Finale. Something, a spark of recognition. _I know you, and you are mine._ Not true. No one's property. Never. _Stay with me...money, clothes, cars, anything you want, Ken, anything...anything but freedom...mine, mine, mine...._ But this one had nothing to offer him, nothing at all...except his body. And bodies were his for the asking. Not even that. He never had to ask.  
   
A face, pale and haunted, surfaced in his thoughts—a face that spoke of vulnerability and of pain too deep to be borne. A man torn apart....  
   
The empty beer can crumpled in his hand, and he sat staring at the distorted metal, trying to force the image from his mind. Not his problem, godamnit! Not his. The guy wanted his body. Fine. He'd obliged...or would have. What the hell else had Starsky expected? Serenades and poems? Hardly. He'd made it all too clear that first day what he thought of his new partner—pretty boy fag, out for the quick fuck, of no use or purpose other than his body. Just like all the rest...all his life...all his memories....  
   
Sounds of activity reached him, dragging him back to this place and time. Moments separated him from a confrontation he desperately wanted to avoid. He didn't want to hear what this man would say, was distrustful of any words he might speak himself. The partnership was dead, dead before it began—a corpse of empty hours and let's pretend.  
   
On quiet feet Starsky entered the room, his presence felt in sudden shadow which reduced the lamplight to painted yellow. Perhaps he would leave as suddenly as he had come—a man of darkness returning to the night. He waited and remembered...body pulsating with desire, captured beneath him, wanting him, needing him....  
   
Starsky moved, entering his line of sight as he crossed to the door—black panther carrying always his own camouflage...gone forever.... He stared at the retreating back, and could not look away when the man turned to face him. Moments passed into eternity as their gazes met and held, pulling him down some dark tunnel. “Don't go,” he whispered. “Don't go.”  
   
“Why?” The question was blunt, leaving no room for the tentativeness of his request.  
   
Why indeed? Protective instincts screamed for attention. _Let him go. For the sake of your life, let him go!_ “Because I want you.” He got to his feet and approached the waiting darkness.  
   
The mouth quirked in the imitation of a smile. “Try a cold shower or jerk it off, pretty boy.”  
   
Bitter words rose in his throat—he knew this game, too. But the beautiful eyes were on him, wide with misery—wounded eyes, speaking of hurts unhealed and of places Hutch had hoped never to see. Who was this man who threw barbed words and set traps with his eyes? “Kiss me,” he said softly, brushing fingertips down one cheek.  
   
Starsky recoiled, coming to rest against the door. Panic leaped in his eyes. “Go to hell!”  
   
 _Too late...._ Hutch closed the narrow space which separated them until he could feel the heat radiating from the trembling body. “Kiss me,” he repeated, tangling both hands in the mass of curly hair, pinning Starsky between himself and the door. He ran the tip of his tongue across the tightly closed mouth, feeling the body start involuntarily. “Kiss me, David,” he breathed, arching against him. “I want to taste you.”  
   
“I hate you.”  
   
Hands that could kill slid around his throat, bringing the excitement of fear. “I know,” he murmured. “Open your mouth.”  
   
And whether the lips parted to his command or to offer some further protest he neither knew nor cared. With a deep groan of what might have been pain, Starsky flowed against him, the aggressor now, ravaging his mouth and devouring his body with hands that hurt and made him welcome the hurting.  
   
Tearing his mouth away, he fought for air and sanity _...anything but freedom...never...mine...too late...too goddamn late...._ “Fuck me, David.”  
   
~~~~~~  
   
He moaned and writhed beneath the alien assault, fingers probing where he had never been touched. Always the dominant partner, he had only done to others what was now being done to him. Wrong, all wrong, an inversion of reality that left him disoriented and slightly scared. _Too soon...time...tell him...I hate you...no...no...love me...._ Staring at the backlighted figure crouched between his knees, he wished for words, reassurances, anything but the silence of this man he almost feared.  
   
“David...ohhh!” He gasped sharply as another finger entered him, thrusting deeper, harder—preparation for what was to follow. “I've never...,” he tried again.  
   
Without warning the fingers were withdrawn, and his legs were being hoisted to rest on broad shoulders. _Stop...let me explain...oh, Jesus...please...._ “David, please....”  
   
Hands gripped his ass, spreading the cheeks, and he was plunged into a sea of pain, choking on screams of agony that somehow escaped as the whimpers of a trapped and dying animal.  
   
“Still afraid, Ken?”  
   
The voice emerged out of the darkness of his torment, and with sudden clarity he knew the pain was deliberate. Another sharp thrust wrung a strangled cry from him, and he fought in earnest to dislodge this beast of retribution from his body.  
   
“You want me, don't you?” taunted the voice, as hands of steel encircled his thighs, dragging him higher, immobilizing him. “And you always get what you want, don't you?”  
   
 _All his life...all his memories...._ “Love me,” he whispered against the pain. “Love me, Starsk. Please, just this once, love me."  
   
*******  
*******

 _Love me, Starsk...Starsk...Starsk...._ And once more his body betrayed him, all vestiges of desire fleeing as he stared at the pale, pleading face. He withdrew his shrinking cock and released his grip on the long legs, letting them slide slowly to the bed. _Goddamn you! Goddamn you to everlasting hell!_ He sat back on his heels, head bowed, still there between the thighs of the body he wanted so desperately and would never have. Because he was afraid—afraid of the love he felt for a man he didn't know, afraid of this man who wasn't Mark, afraid that the dream he'd pretended was long dead was in fact really dead.  
   
“Starsky?”  
   
He raised his head and met clear eyes. All light in the room had found the golden hair, haloing the beautiful face, denying darkness, denying him. “You're beautiful, you know,” he said, “like one of those Greek statues.”  
   
A weariness as old as time itself entered the eyes which held his. “Not quite.” Hutch pushed himself up against the headboard and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Go home, David. I was wrong.”  
   
“About what?”  
   
“You, me, everything I guess. Just chalk it up to stupidity. I'll tell Dobey on Monday. He didn't want me at Metro, anyway. He'll understand you feeling the same.”  
   
No recriminations, only the bone-deep weariness that was suddenly a knot of pain in Starsky's chest. _Love me, Starsk. Please, just this once, love me._ “Hutch?” The name fell from him without conscious thought. “Look at me.”  
   
Eyes opened, and he was staring into his own shattered dreams. “You said you wanted me to love you.” He spoke quietly, fear a hard lump in his throat.  
   
Shutters descended, masking emotion. “I didn't know what I was saying. Forget it.”  
   
“I can't. You have to tell me why.”  
   
“I don't have to tell you a goddamned thing.” The blond head turned away from him.  
   
“I'm sorry I hurt you.”  
   
“Fine. Now leave.”  
   
“I do love you.” He heard the words with a horrible kind of fascination, saying the one thing he'd resolved never to say to anyone ever again, especially not to this man. Deadly stillness fell over the room while he watched the strong fingers clench into fists. Afraid to move or to speak, he waited.  
   
At last Hutch spoke, his voice a controlled monotone. “What makes you think I care one way or the other?”  
   
“Because you love me.” Go for broke, all or nothing. “Look at me and tell me you don't, and I'll leave.”  
   
The pale eyes were on him again, glittering in anger or with tears—he didn't know.  
   
“I don't even know you. How could I love you?” The long legs swung over the side of the bed, and Hutch sat there, holding his head between clenched fists.  
   
“But you do, don't you?” He moved up the bed to kneel by the hunched figure, placing a hand on the exposed neck, caressing.  
   
“Oh, God!” A shudder rippled through the golden body. “Why can't you leave me alone?” Desperation was in the voice now. “I don't want to love you. Don't you understand? I don't know how!”  
   
He encircled the trembling man with his arms, kissing a smooth shoulder and tousled blond hair. “I always thought I'd make a good teacher,” he murmured, pulling Hutch down on the bed.  
   
Fear...doubt...uncertainty.... “Starsk?”  
   
“Shhh, babe. Just let it go. All I need right now is this.” And he bent his head to take the parted mouth, running his tongue along the inner tender surface and then probed deeper. A soft moan, and arms were sliding around him, drawing him close.

~~~~~~~  
   
Powerful legs gripped his sides, crushing him, forcing him deeper and deeper. The slim ass rose at each thrust, swallowing his cock with savage hunger. And he plunged on, possessed, unable to control the riptide dragging him under.  
   
“Yes...yes....”  
   
A strangled cry reached through the thunder of his blood as the body beneath him convulsed, showering him in liquid fire and demanding his own. With one last brutal thrust, he impaled his cock in the burning flesh and lost himself in shock wave after shock wave of release.  
   
He collapsed, shaking and shaken. Never in his life.... Hands reached for him, drawing him up, sweat and semen creating a slick, musk-scented path along the smooth body. Eyes, dark and wide, stared into his minute after minute, searching, questioning. And suddenly he knew what this beautiful, lonely man needed. The mouth parted willingly to his, accepting and returning the gentleness of the kiss and touch. He rubbed his face along the faintly stubbled cheek and nibbled softly on one earlobe. “By the way, my favorite color's blue,” he murmured. Hands tangled in his hair, pulling his head up to meet startled eyes.  
   
“What did you say?”  
   
“What's the matter? You don't like blue?” He smiled and kissed the perfectly straight nose—an honest-to-God living and breathing Greek statue. A sense of awe swept over him, and he sobered, but struggled to keep his voice light. “Well, we can't agree on everything. Think how bored we'd get.”  
   
He watched the smile begin in Hutch's eyes and spread like breaking dawn across the golden face until laughter was singing through the room, turning his world on its axis of delight.  
   
********  
********  
   
“Don't you keep anything decent to eat in this place?” Starsky grumbled. Rummaging in the refrigerator.  
   
“Depends on your persuasion, I guess,” Hutch answered from the couch, smiling innocently at the leer Starsky turned on him.  
   
“Don't tempt me.”  
   
“To what?” He picked up the guitar, placed it strategically across his lap, and strummed a couple of minor chords.  
   
The refrigerator door slammed, and bare feet padded across the floor to stop in front of him.  
   
“Put that goddamned thing down.”  
   
He looked up at the slender body, naked and proud, unconscious of its beauty. “I thought you were hungry,” he said, finding it difficult to maintain the pretense.  
   
“I am.” The guitar was taken from him and returned to its place on the floor. “And I just decided what for,” Starsky continued, kneeling in front of him.  
   
“Get up from there,” he laughed, catching the softly caressing hands in his. “The bed's more comfortable.”  
   
Starsky looked up, a glint of humor in the sapphire eyes. “You're a prude. I bet you've never done it anywhere but bed.”  
   
He felt heat crawl up his neck and face, damning his fair skin.  
   
“My god! You blush. I love it!” But the laughter was gentle and sharing, drawing him into the happiness of discovery.  
   
Like slippery eels, the determined hands escaped his grasp and moved up his thighs, the dark head bending to follow the path with soft nips and kisses.  
   
“Starsk....”  
   
“Ummm?”  
   
He buried his fingers in the shower-damp curls, letting the hands spread his legs and pull him forward slightly. “This isn't fair,” he murmured in half-hearted protest, shuddering as hot wetness licked a trail along his inner thigh.  
   
“Shut up,” came a mumbled reply.  
   
And the lips continued their assault, working gradually higher. He watched his cock swell and harden, reaching eagerly for the approaching mouth. “Jesus!” he gasped, arching upward as Starsky gathered his balls in one hand and squeezed gently.  
   
“Easy, babe. I'm only getting started. You're a three course meal.”  
   
And the mouth was on him again—tonguing, sucking, all but swallowing the tender globes of flesh. Hutch threw his head back against the couch, unable to control the muscle spasms that jerked his legs like a marionette gone mad. “You're gonna miss...the main...course...if you don't.... Oh, shit!” He dug his fingers into Starsky's arms, unsure if he was trying to push him away or urge him on.

“Ah-ah, no cheating.”

The hands slid beneath his ass, kneading, pulling him forward again until he was balanced precariously on the edge of the cushion. “Here, put your legs over my shoulders. Good. Now I can reach this.” Saliva moistened fingers entered him, pushing deep, evoking a low moan of pleasure. “And this.” The mouth descended, engulfing his cock in wet fire.  
   
“Yes...oh, god!” He clawed at the sofa cushion, caught between the exquisite sensations of thrusting fingers and sucking mouth.  
   
Time and time again he was brought to the brink, only to have Starsky deliberately hold him back. Beyond control now, he heard his voice pleading, begging, crying for release, pouring forth mingled obscenities and prayers. In desperation, he grabbed the bobbing head and thrust his cock deep into the hot cavern, hearing Starsky gag but far past caring. A second of infinity while he balanced on the precipice and then fell over the edge of the world, the name of his savior echoing like surf upon a storm-lashed shore.  
   
“Now we go to bed.”  
   
Strong arms pulling him upright on trembling legs, guiding him, pushing him gently onto the bed, turning him face down.  
   
“Beautiful ass.”  
   
Hands stroking....  
   
“I want it.”  
   
Mouth feeding....  
   
“Now.”  
   
Thighs straddling....  
   
“Like this.”  
   
Hard cock entering....  
   
“That's right, babe.”  
   
Slowly, relentlessly entering....  
   
“Nice and smooth and easy.”  
   
Body lying over him, around him...shielding, possessing. The weight on him was warm. The pressure in him welcome familiarity. “Take me,” he whispered, accepting this as all—all his life...all his memories.... “I love you.”  
   
~~~~~~  
   
He awoke at the insistence of the sun. Bright and demanding, it pried at his sleep-drugged eyes with merciless fingers. He stretched and almost yelped aloud, shocked to full awareness by the soreness of his body. What the hell? And then remembered, turning to find a blanket-covered form next to him. All but the dark curls were hidden from view. Starsky. Real. Here. Scenes from the previous night snapped through his mine—freeze-frames of emotions, piling one on top of the other in chaos. _Dear God!_

Muscles protesting, he slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, grateful that the denim was soft with age. For another few moments he stood staring down at the sleeping man, and then headed for the kitchen.  
   
His hands automatically went through the motions of preparing coffee while his thoughts chased each other in circles of confusion, refusing to stop and confront the truth at their center. _Fuck me, David...love me, Starsk...take me...because you love me...I don't know how...take me...love me...I don't want to love you...but you do, don't you...love me...take me...._  
   
He was staring out the kitchen window, oblivious of the percolator's burbling when he felt a presence behind him—a sudden stillness which had nothing to do with the absence of sound. Tension gripped him with cold fingers...or maybe it was fear. What was Starsky expecting of him now, in the clear light of day?  
   
“Some coffee wouldn't be bad for starters.”  
   
He whirled at the quiet voice, meeting eyes that knew him and—God in heaven!—owned him. _Mine forever._ Mesmerized, he watched the smiling possessor of his soul approach. _No...no!_ “You still haven't paid for last night, David. How do I know your credit's good?” _No one's property...never...._  
   
Sickness threatened at the back of his throat as the jeans-clad man halted, the smiling eyes turning suddenly hard and dangerous. A warn leather wallet was pulled from a back pocket, two bills extracted and tossed on the floor at his feet—ten dollars.  
   
“Your mouth work needs practice.”  
   
Death in soft tones, and he was gone.  
   
Hutch stared at the money _...anything but freedom...._ “Starsk?” _...love me...._ “Starsk!” He half-ran to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway, watching the slender hands as they finished tying a sneaker. “I'm sorry.”  
   
Starsky stood up and met his eyes, darkness crowding out the sun, black star. “Don't be. You'll get better with experience.”  
   
Beyond reach.  
   
“Please....”  
   
“Please what, Kenny boy?” Starsky shrugged into his jacket and turned up the collar.  
   
A smile that sent fear racing along Hutch's veins crooked the mouth. "Don't go."  
   
“Have to. I'm fresh out of cash, and you were right—I don't carry credit cards. Maybe next payday.”  
   
Shadows moved, and he stepped aside to let Starsky pass, feeling the cold wind of loss sweep through him. “I love you,” he called softly after the retreating man, facing the truth at last and all its implications. _...too late?_  
   
“And that makes everything all right, does it?”  
   
Starsky turned at the door, just as he had the night before—before he'd realigned the parameters of existence as Hutch had known them. The pain was there in the beautiful eyes, even deeper than before.  
   
“I'm supposed to smile and forgive and be happy that pretty boy Hutchinson stoops to honor me. Sorry, baby, you'll have to find someone else to play your games. I've been that route before and all it got me was a headful of bad memories.”  
   
He followed the dark gaze to the kitchen. The two fives lay where they had been thrown—the price of a soul. He didn't bother to turn as the door opened and closed, its catch clicking softly in the quiet room. _Much too late...._  
   
~~~~~~~  
   
The bar was Saturday night full—standing room only—and he hated it. But any place was better than his house, with its memories and.... He turned at the pressure of a caress on his arm.  
   
“Can I buy you a drink?”  
   
His stomach lurched as he stared into dark blue eyes... _you'll have to find someone else to play your games...how do I know your credit's good...._  
   
“If you think you can reach the bar.” Taller, younger, heavier, safe....  
   
“I wasn't Northwestern's star running back for nothing. What'll it be?”

"Beer's fine."  
   
“Back in a minute. Don't get lost.”  
   
He leaned against the wall by the door and watched the man maneuver his way across the room. As easy as that. Same as always... _and be happy pretty boy Hutchinson stoops to honor me...._  
   
~~~~~  
   
Craig lay next to him, his body warm, his breathing slow and even. He was a good fuck, wanting it rough and hard, the one-time athlete still in perfect condition. Just the type he liked. And quiet—no questions asked, no explanations needed, no promises expected.  
   
“Craig?” The name sounded strange on his lips.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Do you believe in love? For our kind, I mean.”

“Our kind?” There was a hint of laughter in the deep voice. “I take it you're talking about gays.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Guess that depends on the people, doesn't it?”  
   
“Does it?” he murmured, stubbing out the cigarette in the bedside ashtray.  
   
“Well, sure. Lots of gays are afraid of that kind of commitment. Me, I'd hook up in a minute if I found the right person.” A slightly wistful note entered his tone. “I don't suppose you're asking, are you?”  
   
“No.” All the same.  
   
“Didn't think so.” A deep sigh of resignation and then, “Does he look like me”  
   
Darkness deeper than the night filled his mind—sapphire points of light burned in his soul. “Who?”  
   
“The other guy.”  
   
He slid down into the welcoming arms. “What other guy?” he asked, running his hands over the muscular body, wanting to forget... _and you always get what you want, don't you, don't you, Ken...don't you...don't you...._ “Shit!” He shoved Craig away and fumbled for the lamp switch. Soft illumination flooded the room as he sat up on the edge of the bed, swearing viciously.  
   
“Hey, what's wrong?”  
   
“Nothing. Forget it.” He stood up and began dressing.  
   
“Look, I'm sorry. It's none of my business.” The perfect body sat watching him from the center of the bed. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”  
   
He pulled on the second boot and met the dark gaze, years wiser than its owner had any right to.  
   
“But you won't, will you?”  
   
“A week too late, Craig. Or a lifetime. Who knows?”  
   
“Maybe you oughta find out.”  
   
~~~~~  
   
He parked the car and leaned back, welcoming the breeze that flowed through the open window. The street was dark, a quiet residential block that somehow seemed the wrong environment for the man who lived here. Starsky. A stranger. And what in heaven's name was happening to him? How could this one man in less than one week destroy twelve years of careful work. Love? The word was meaningless, a catch-all for everything from snow cones to God. Besides, how could he love someone he didn't know, didn't like, and was more than a little afraid of. Desire, yes. Sweet Jesus, yes. He wanted that body, wanted to feel that hard cock inside him, burning away everything but the sheer ecstasy of being fucked. No one else had ever made him want that. The few who had tried had been left with nothing. He had called the shots, held the power, walked away. Always. And yet, with Starsky there'd been no question, no hesitation. He'd wanted to submit. No, had needed to. Still did. Why? _I love you...._ Stupid words. Goddamned meaningless stupid words. _I love you...love you...love you...._  
   
He opened the car door with trembling hands and climbed out. The cool silence of summer darkness enveloped him. Shadow layered upon shadow—all the subtle patterns of night that possessed the world far more completely than any sun. Perhaps all cats were really black.

*********  
*********  
   
He awoke with a start, wondering what had jarred him from sleep. A knock reverberated through the darkness, loud and impatient. He glanced at the clock—1:45. Who...? Him? A cold knot formed in his chest. Hope, unwanted, was trying to surface, but he crushed it with a brutal reminder of the long, empty hours he'd spent waiting and hoping, of a thousand apologies and a thousand broken promises.  
   
“A minute,” he yelled, turning on a lamp and climbing from bed. His jeans lay in a heap where he'd stepped out of them earlier. Pulling them on, he zipped the fly, shrugged into a shirt and hurried into the living room. The knock sounded again, louder. “Who is it?”  
   
“Me.”  
   
Drawing in a deep breath to steady his suddenly racing pulse, he threw the bolt and pulled the door open. Gold hair shown, the only point of light in the dimness, and he fought the urge to reach out and and touch it. Anger at his own weakness filtered into his voice. “What do you want?”  
   
“Can I come in?”  
   
Wide, pale eyes stared into his, unblinking. _I love you...I'm sorry...._ So easy. Take him to bed and forget everything until...until tomorrow's pay off? “What's the matter, Ken? Tonight's trick turn up broke?”  
   
“I want to talk...just talk.”  
   
 _Take me...love me...._ “There's nothing to talk about. You made your choice. I told you—“  
   
“That you loved me.”  
   
The words were clear, sounding loud in the dark hallway. He suddenly remembered his neighbors and dragged Hutch into the apartment. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed, closing the door and leaning against it. “All right, you're here. So talk.”  
   
The long body prowled the shadows for several moments in silence, finally stopping to face him from across the room. “Why did you lie?”  
   
“Lie? About what?”  
   
“About loving me.”  
   
Danger made its presence felt in the quiet words. _You'll be back, Davey. You always come back. You love me, remember?_ “What difference does it make?” He pushed away from door and flipped on the overhead light. The sudden brightness made him wince, but it also made him feel safer.  
   
“I believed you.”  
   
 _Please, God, just this once...._ “You're ego's showing, Ken.” He flopped on the couch, stretching his legs out to rest his feet on the coffee table. “People say a lot of things they don't mean to get what they want.”  
   
“And what exactly was it that you wanted, David? A little revenge maybe?”  
   
His head snapped around to meet glittering crystal—the light had been a mistake. He tried a laugh and felt it catch in his throat. Getting to his feet again, he paced a few steps toward the door—escape, no where to go. Goddamn it! Why was he feeling guilty? He hadn't denied everything from last night with a cheap shot about payment. _I don't know how...always thought I'd make a good teacher...I'm sorry...I love you...find someone else to play your games.... Revenge?_  
   
“You succeeded, if it makes you feel good to hear it.”  
   
He started at the nearness of Hutch's voice, turning to find him close enough to touch. “Succeeded?” _Don't look at me like that...._  
   
“Oh, yeah, all the way.” He smiled bleakly. “Because as ludicrous as it sounds, I do love you—the only man I've said that to. Which should make it even better for you, I guess. So congratulations, David. You really are one hell of a teacher.”  
   
 _Don't you understand...I don't know how...._ He moved aside automatically, allowing Hutch to reach the door before his mind snapped back into focus. “Wait!”  
   
The blond head lifted, the shoulders squared, the hand dropped from the knob, but nothing was said.  
   
Questions and accusations sped through Starsky's mind, tripping over one another in confusion, short-circuiting speech. Finally, Hutch swung about to meet his gaze. Lines of fatigue were etched like scars in the beautiful face. _I'm sorry...I'm sorry...._ Memories of anothers plea or echoes from his own heart? “Hutch, I....” His voice faltered. There weren't any excuses, only truths. “I didn't lie.”  
   
“Why are you doing this to me?” Despair filled the whispered words.  
   
Starsky reached out a hand to touch him, hesitated, and let it fall to his side. “Because I'm afraid.”  
   
The colorless eyes widened in surprise, lending an aura of angelic innocence to this man who tormented his soul—gold and white and cruelly indifferent as only genuine beauty could be. Sickness twisted in Starsky's gut. Well and truly caught—Mark hadn't possessed the half of it. “You really don't understand, do you?”  
   
He turned away before Hutch could answer, retracing his steps to the couch. But he remained standing, fixing his gaze on the the geometic design of the upholstery fabric. “I loved someone else a long time ago. He sort of looked like you...not a lot, but.... Mark was a user—men, women, anyone who had something he wanted. Me, because I loved him, and he wanted that, too...for a while. It took me a long time to figure out it wasn't all his fault. People let him be what he was. Like they let you. Has anyone you wanted ever turned you down, Ken?” Silence hung heavy in the air, and he nodded to himself, feeling the sickness deepen. “Never mind. It was a stupid question—seems like I ask a lot of those. But you had me going there for a bit, you know. Guess I thought I was going to be the exception, that maybe you'd just been waiting for someone who really loved you.”  
   
“I still am.”  
   
He turned at the softly voiced words, watching as Hutch pushed away from the door and crossed to stand before him.  
   
“Is it you, David? Do you really love me?”  
   
He felt the heat radiating from this sun man, smelled the clean pure scent of him, and suddenly knew that no matter the cost he couldn't let him go. Tomorrow or the next week or next year when he was crying himself to sleep, alone and aching, he'd curse the gods who had created this flawed angel and thrown him down to earth; but right now, all he'd ever wanted was a hand's reach away, and he was powerless to resist its seduction. “Yes.”  
   
***********  
***********  
   
No name, no identity, nothing real in all the far reaches of the galaxy except the sweat-drenched and gasping man he held fast in shaking arms. The air reeked of sex and echoed still the cries of passions almost beyond endurance. There were no thoughts, much less words, to express his feelings, but somewhere a voice he recognized as his own was murmuring a litany of endearments.  
   
Perhaps he slept. Or maybe he merely returned from some other-world journey. But suddenly he was aware that a long expanse of time had passed and he was cold.  
   
“Starsky?” he asked, unsure if the man he still held in a tight embrace was awake or not.  
   
“Ummm.”  
   
“We're gonna catch cold.” An involuntary shudder lent emphasis to his statement.  
   
“Uh-huh,” Starsky agreed, but made no effort to move except to snuggle closer.  
   
“Come on, Starsk.” He pushed gently at the lax body, managing to free all but one leg. Dried perspiration and semen made his skin itch, and he longed for a warm shower with lots of soap. “I wanna clean up.”  
   
“Umph!” Starsky rolled over onto his back. “A fuckin' clean freak.” But he opened his eyes and smiled away any hint of criticism.  
   
The soft glow of the bedside lamp danced like silver stars from the deep blue of Starsky's eyes—a true creature of the night, dark and mysterious and somehow sinister. A thrill of something that might have been fear fluttered through his stomach and was gone. He returned the smile and stood up, stretching. “You could use some cleaning up yourself, you know. Want to join me?”  
   
“Not yet. Gonna change the sheets. But don't use all the hot water.”  
   
He glanced down at the sprawled figure and grinned. “A cold shower just might cure what ails you.”  
   
Starsky wriggled his hips suggestively and leered up at him. “Wanna bet?”  
   
“Ask me that in about forty years.” He laughed and got to his feet.  
   
“Deal.”  
   
He sobered abruptly at the tone of Starsky's voice. No one was joking now. And once more he experienced that small flutter of apprehension.  
   
The dark eyes held his, tilting the planes of reality at crazy angles, mesmerizing, calling. He swallowed hard and turned away, escaping to the comparative safety of the bathroom. In a few minutes heated water was driving out the chill, but nothing could banish the memory of those eyes—doorways into some place or dimension that repulsed him and fascinated him at the same time. Black robed and hooded daemons, holding destruction in their in their closed hands, rose up to meet him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel the terror.  
   
“Hey.”  
   
The bar of soap slipped from his nerveless fingers as his eyes flew open in shock.  
   
“What's the matter? You look like you just seen a ghost.”  
   
“No...nothing.” He forced a smile.  
   
“Good.” Starsky stepped into the shower stall and picked up the soap. “Here, wash my back, okay?”  
   
He accepted the proffered bar. “Sure. Turn around.”  
   
“Thought it might be more fun this way.”  
   
And the water-slicked body was moving into his arms, the blue eyes, wide and innocent, laughed into his, daring him to find anything but love and happiness in their shining depths.  
   
~~~~~~~  
   
“They got the names mixed up.”  
   
“What?” He glanced up from his breakfast plate and intercepted a slightly quizzical look on Starsky's face.  
   
“Our names. Yours should've been David, like that Michelangelo sculpture. You look like him.”  
   
A flash of anger swept through Hutch. “Will you knock it off with the statue stuff? Makes me feel like some kind of side show exhibit. I hate it.” He shoved the nearly full plate of food away, stood up, and stalked into the living room. He knew he was over-reacting, but couldn't seem to help it. Something was very wrong, something important.  
   
He stared out at the Sunday-deserted street, listening to the clink of dishes as Starsky cleared the table. Noises of domesticity. Traps. Baited with a body he craved and...something else. This certainly wasn't the first time he'd had breakfast with a man the morning after, but.... Familiarity. He grappled with the elusive feeling, tying to pin it down. Like stepping into the middle of a play where the lines were already written and rehearsed—a world that existed somewhere apart from his control or ability to change, a world that had existed before him and would continue after him. Except that couldn't be....  
   
“Hey, I'm sorry.”  
   
He turned his gaze on the man leaning against the door jamb. “Does your family know you're gay?”  
   
“Huh?”  
   
“Do you have any brothers or sisters? What's your dad do for a living? Did you always want to be a cop? How'd you get the department to approve that red-and-white hot rod as an official car?”  
   
“Wait!” Starsky raised one hand in a gesture of self-protection. “What's with the twenty questions bit?”  
   
“Us...whatever's happening here. Don't you see? It's all settled and we don't even know one another. I hate eggs in the morning.”  
   
Confusion warred with joy on Starsky's face for a moment, and then he was across the room, grabbing Hutch in a bear hug and spinning him around, laughter bubbling forth like champagne. “You're a crazy man, and I love you. Yes, my mother knows I'm gay. I have one brother. He knows, too, but won't admit it. Captain Dobey loves my car, and I don't like eggs for breakfast either. What'd I forget?”  
   
Starsky let him go and stood back, grinning. It was infectious. Hutch laughed and ruffled the tangled mop of hair. “Okay, okay. I know I get too serious sometimes, but you've got to admit this situation's a bit strange. I mean, I feel like I've known you all my life, and yet I don't really know you at all.”  
   
“And you want to?”  
   
The humor in the blue eyes was replaced by a quiet intensity that reached out to him with hypnotic force. Hutch felt a faint stirring of the fear he'd experienced the night before, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. There was nothing to be afraid of here. It was just the lack of knowledge that was bothering him. “Yeah, I do.”  
   
“All right.” Starsky's expression was sunny once more. “You sit over there.” He pointed to a large chair. “And I'll sit here.” He flopped into one corner of the couch. “That way I'll talk instead of doin' other things.”  
   
Hutch laughed again and sat down. “You don't mind if I doubt that sitting across the room will stop you from doing what you damn well please, do you?”  
   
“Humph! I knew it—you think I'm a fuckin' sex maniac.”

“Exactly.”  
   
“I don't remember you complaining last night.”  
   
“I'm not complaining now.”  
   
“No?”  
   
“No.  
   
“Well....” Starsky grinned and started to get up.  
   
“Ah-ah. You made these arrangements, now live with them. We're gonna talk, remember?”  
   
“Yeah, yeah. Talk.” Starsky settled back on the sofa, heaving a deep sigh. But the blue eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter, and the beginning of a smile quirked the right corner of his mouth.  
   
A strange kind of euphoria swept through Hutch. It was an excitement not unlike that of sex, only an emotional high, pure and undiluted by any need for physical stimuli. Butterflies did a few formation dives through his stomach, and the hand he raised to push back his hair shook.  
   
“Well,” Starsky asked, “we just gonna sit here and stare at each other? Not that that's all bad,” he added.  
   
Hutch shook his head. “Just talk to me. Tell me about yourself. Anything. Everything.” It didn't matter. Right at the moment, Starsky could have recited the phone book and he would have been content. The sound of his voice was all Hutch wanted. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Talk to me, Starsk.”  
   
 ********  
********  
   
“...and I left.”  
   
“Just like that?”  
   
“Yeah. There didn't seem much reason to stay. My father said I was a bad influence on Lori, but he really meant I was an embarrassment to him. He was terrified one of his friends would find out about his queer son.”  
   
“Why'd you tell him?”  
   
“He asked.”  
   
Starsky let that soak in for a minute. _He asked._ Question-answer. Always the truth? “Hutch?”  
   
“Yeah?” The pale eyes opened and found him.  
   
Shadows sprawled across the room in lazy abandon, filling up the corners with their promise of night. But as always, what little light remained clustered about the shining head, finding a welcome home. He lost his train of thought, forgotten in the glow of this man's beauty.  
   
“What is it?” Hutch prompted after a minute.  
   
“Why'd you pull that stunt with the money yesterday.”  
   
Hutch stared at him for several moments, then leaned forward to cradle his head between clenched fists—already a familiar gesture of confusion.  
   
“I don't know. I guess I was scared. It didn't make sense that you could really love me...not that soon. And...." The low voice trailed off into silence.  
   
Starsky got up from the couch and moved across to kneel by the huddled figure. He placed a hand on one long thigh, feeling the soft nap of expensive corduroy beneath his fingers. Beautiful clothes for a beautiful man—where did he belong? Not riding a beat in the sleaziest part of L.A., that was for sure. Nature and background had obviously intended him for something else. Would he realize it one day? Would that be the time he'd leave? “And what, babe?”  
   
“That.” Hutch looked down at the hand on his leg. “All of it. 'Babe.' Making me want you to love me, like I'd just been drifting 'til you found me, waiting for you. Like all my life before you was just wasted time.”  
   
Gentle fingers were in his hair and on his cheek. Emotion threatened to choke him as he gazed into the wide, clear eyes. Whatever it was that drew him to this man was real and bound both of them in its web. Love? Not enough somehow, but the only word he knew for it. “Mine, too,” he whispered and reached up to trace the smooth line from temple to throat. “But it was worth it.”  
   
Arms folded around him, and he melted into the embrace, drinking in the heat and smell of the golden body. Sunshine. Softly burning fire on a winter's night. Blinding center of the star sapphire's heart. Pine forest on a summer's day. All things of light and warmth. How had he survived all these years without him? He closed his mind against the thoughts of any such future.  
   
~~~~~~~~  
   
“Yeah, I know.... You're right, Sharon.... I did.... Uh-huh.” He made a face at the phone and ran a hand over the arm that encircled his waist. Warm lips nuzzled the side of his neck, whispering choice obscenities about the caller. He squirmed and stifled a giggle as fingers feathered across his ribs. “No, of course not. You know I wouldn't do that to you, sweetheart. I've been working. Meant to call, but you know—“ He grabbed at the distracting hand and pulled. “Stop it, damn you,” he muttered. “No, nothing. Look, Sharon, I'm dead on my feet. How 'bout if I call you tomorrow, okay? Yeah, promise. G'night.”  
   
Hutch leaned across him to push the disconnect button, then removed the receiver from his grasp and dropped it on the floor.  
   
“Didn't your mother ever teach you it's bad manners to talk on the phone when you're in bed with someone?”  
   
Eager lips effectively cut off any response. Who the hell cared anyway? He opened his mouth and drew the pliant body closer. So good, so good. Desire stirred, pulsing heat along his veins. Never enough. But as he tightened his hold, Hutch struggled free and sat up. The blond hair was in finger-combed desarray, the face flushed, and the slightly swollen lips stained red. The long, hard muscles of a runner's body lay hidden beneath their smooth covering of flesh. Totally beautiful. Starsky reached for him. “Where you going?”  
   
“Home,” Hutch answered, leaning away from him.  
   
“Why?” Had he been jealous of Sharon's call? That was just ridiculous, although a little flattering, too. “I want you to stay.”  
   
Hutch stared at him for a minute and then stood up. “Can't.” He picked up the pale cords and stepped into them.  
   
“What do you mean, you can't?” Fear clawed at his heart, sharpening his tone, leaving...walking out.... _It's been fun, Davey. I'll call you sometime._ He sat up and watched as Hutch continued dressing, seemingly oblivious of him. “Goddamn you, answer me!”  
   
Hutch looked at him then, his eyes ice-clear and just as cold. They froze the anger in Starsky's chest, shutting off breath and words.  
   
“I don't have to account to you for anything. No one owns me.”  
   
Starved lungs demanded air, and he breathed again, carefully. There was danger here. _Mine...mine...._ “I don't want to own you.” _...always mine...._ He hoped the smile stretching his mouth didn't look as painful as it felt. “I just don't understand why you suddenly decided to go home. If its because of Sharon, you—“  
   
“Don't do this,” Hutch interrupted, his voice a bare whisper of sound. “Don't make me want to leave.”  
   
Something shifted in the pale eyes, and he was falling into a yawning abyss of loneliness. The rush of air deafened him as he somersaulted down...down.... Hutch turned away to pick up his socks and boots. The spell was broken. Starsky watched him through the door and then wiped at the cold sweat that trickled down his face. Lost, almost lost. He got to his feet and pulled on a pair of jeans. His hands shook with fine tremors that made difficult work of the zipper and snap. Still shaking, he padded into the living room. “You want some coffee before you go?” The casualness of his voice surprised him.  
   
Hutch looked up from his task, caution evident in his face.  
   
“I'm gonna make some anyway,” he added, hating the need to explain his actions, and walked on into the kitchen.  
   
“Starsk?”  
   
He swung around to find Hutch leaning in the doorway, a small, rueful smile tilting the corners of his mouth.  
   
“I'm sorry. Just give me some time, huh? Guess I still haven't got used to...well, you know, everything.”  
   
“S'okay. I was out of line.” Hutch's smile widened, and the cold knot of fear in Starsky's stomach began to melt. “ _Do_ you want some coffee?”  
   
“No. I just want to go home and get some sleep. Otherwise, you're gonna have one useless partner tomorrow.”  
   
Starsky recognized the attempt to put things back on a light note and smiled. “Never do, Sgt. Hutchinson. Always prepared, that's the boys in blue.”  
   
Hutch laughed and raised his right hand in the Boy Scout salute. "Yes, Sir. Bright and early tomorrow  
morning.”  
   
Starsky followed him as far as the middle of the living room.  
   
Hutch shrugged into his jacket and pulled the door open. “Night,” he called over his shoulder and was gone.  
   
“Love you.” The whispered words fell into the empty room and were swallowed up in its silence.  
   
He continued to stare at the closed door for several moments, fighting the depression which threatened to smother him. Everything would be okay. Had to be. A shiver rippled along his spine, and he crossed to lock up and turn out the light. As he was sliding the bolt into place, a hurried knock sounded.  
   
“Starsk?”  
   
Afraid to assume anything, he unfastened the lock and tugged the door open.  
   
Hutch slipped inside and shoved the door closed again. “I forgot something,” he murmured, pulling Starsky into his arms.  
   
And the warm mouth was on his, hungry and demanding, driving away the shadows. Just when he had happily resigned himself to death by suffocation, Hutch pulled back, smiling into his eyes.  
   
“I love you. Sleep well.”  
   
And he was gone again, leaving behind a hazy golden glow of happiness and the more definite ache of frustration.  
   
“Cock tease,” Starsky muttered and then laughed aloud. Eight hours to plan a suitable retribution. It was so nice to have a lover who blushed.  
   
*********  
*********  
   
The noise of squad room activities rose and fell around him in haphazard pattern of ringing phones, pounded typewriter keys, and the unpredictable comings and goings of personnel. It was familiar noise, the expected accompaniment to paper work. He sat across from Starsky, sorting copies of their reports from the previous week into various categories—felony arrests, misdemeanor arrests, witness statements, investigation follow-ups. All of these from two cops during a slow week. Sometimes he wondered why the city wasn't buried miles deep in xerox paper and file folders.  
   
“Clerks get paid to do that, you know.”  
   
He smiled at Starsky and shrugged. “I had time.”  
   
“And you're a compulsive organizer.” Starsky returned the smile, glanced at his watch, and stood up. “Gonna get a candy bar. You want one?”  
   
“Sugar rots your teeth.”  
   
“That mean no?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Energy partner. Cops gotta keep it up.” He winked and sauntered off toward the door.  
   
Hutch felt the heat of a blush slide up his neck, and tore his gaze away from the enticing rear view his partner presented in his indecently tight jeans. And not a stitch of underwear. Excitement tingled through him as he allowed himself to think about what lay beneath the denim.  
   
He picked up his cup and took a large gulp of the lukewarm coffee. Working with a partner who was also his lover wasn't going to be so easy. When they'd met this morning in the basement parking lot, he'd wanted more than anything to take that hard body into his arms and make love until he couldn't remember his own name. But he'd had to settle for a smile and a light brush of fingertips down one arm. Maybe it wouldn't have been so difficult if they'd been together last night, and after he was home, tossing sleepless in his bed, he'd questioned his decision. Why had it seemed so important to spend the night alone? Just to prove he could? Pretty dumb, since he'd kept himself awake until after three with unsatisfying fantasies about what he could have been doing if he'd been with Starsky.  
   
A stir of commotion at the door drew his attention. An extremely attractive young woman stood just inside the squad room, a large florist's arrangements of daisies held in front of her.  
   
“Sgt. Hutchinson?” she inquired.  
   
Heads turned in his direction, and he stood up, hesitantly. What the hell? “Here,” he answered.  
   
All eight men watched in rapt attention as the girl approached him. She held out the flowers and flashed pearly teeth in a devastating smile. “For you,” she announced.  
   
He took the vase, turning it in confusion. Who in the world be sending him flowers? “Are you sure?”  
   
“Very.” Her eyes ran over him slowly, appraisingly. She smiled again and turned to leave.  
   
“Oh, just a minute.” He set the vase on the table and reached for his wallet.  
   
The long, blonde hair swayed as she shook her head. “Believe me, I've been paid. The name of the shop's on the envelope in case you get tired of the daisies.”  
   
She retraced her steps to the door, smiled at Starsky who was returning from the candy machine, and left. Starsky craned his head after her for another look and then turned around to give an appreciative whistle before moving into the room. “Who's the pretty lady?” he asked of no one in particular.  
   
“Ask your partner,” Averys answered, grinning at Hutch. “She brought him flowers.”  
   
“Hey, hey, hey! Flowers? For you? Who is she?” Starsky propped one hip on the desk and tipped the vase toward him, inspecting the daisies with curious fingers.  
   
Hutch shrugged, completely mystified and not a little embarrassed by the attention he was receiving. “I have no idea.”  
   
“Well, read the card.”  
   
He pulled the small white envelope from its plastic holder, and turned it over in reluctant hands. His name was printed across the front in neat block letters. He looked up at the eager faces.  
   
“So, go on. Open it,” Starsky prompted.  
   
The blue eyes sparkled with devilment, and a twige of apprehension flickered in Hutch's mind. Several of the detectives nodded in agreement. Averys and Michaels drifted closer.  
   
He pulled the card out and froze. _You are the sunshine of my nights. Thanks for the weekend._ He hastily shoved the card back into its envelope, embarrassment making him clumsy.  
   
“Well, who're they from? Come on, Hutch, don't hold out on me.”  
   
He glared at his grinning partner, shifted his gaze to the others, and then looked back at the flowers. He was going to kill Starsky for this, slowly and joyfully kill him. “Uh...just someone,” he muttered lamely and started to put the note in his pocket. Nimble fingers reached out and twitched it from his grasp. “Starsk!” He made a lunge for the retreating figure and stumbled over his chair. “Damn you! Give that to me!”  
   
Laughter surrounded him, as the men all encouraged Starsky to read the card. He knew his face was scarlet, which was adding to their enjoyment. With a belated attempt at nonchalance he shrugged again and pretended disinterest. “So read it. I don't care.”  
   
“Sgt. Hutchinson?”  
   
All activity ceased as everyone swung toward the strange voice. Eight hands pointed to him. Eight pair of eyes watched with fascination as the delivery boy crossed the room and set an ostentatious bouquet of daffodils next to the daisies. Another small while envelope peeked from among the flowers, but he made no effort to remove it. Starsky pulled out his wallet and handed a dollar to the kid, patted his shoulder, and smiled at him on his way out.  
   
A tidal wave of laughter broke over the office as the door swung closed.  
   
“Goddamn! This is some partner you've got, Starsky.”  
   
“You sure he's gonna have time to be a cop?”  
   
“Oughta be workin' Vice.”  
   
“Hey, Hutchinson, if you get overbooked, give me a call.”  
   
“This what they do down at Harbor?”  
   
“What's going on?” a new voice rumbled.  
   
The response was immediate. Typewriters clacked, chairs scraped, and a pocket of isolation formed around the desk with its two large flower arrangements. Dobey stalked over and stared down at the blooms in disgust. A large hand reached out for the envelope in the daffodils.  
   
Hutch drew in a deep breath, looked in vain for somewhere to escape, and then resigned himself to the inevitable. Grins of anticipation met him from every corner of the room. Starsky, whistling a soundless tune, strolled over to stand next to him. The temptation to strangle him was almost more than he could resist. “I'm gonna kill you,” he hissed, and was treated to a wide-eye Who me? expression that cemented his determination for revenge.  
   
“What the hell's this, Hutchinson? Every day with you is a day of spring. Sunday was marvelous.” Dobey snorted and threw the card on the desk. Giggles broke out behind him, but were quickly stifled when he turned to glare at the offenders. “This is a squad room, in case you've forgotten. And you,” he swung back to Hutch, “you tell—“  
   
“They told me downstairs that I could find Sgt. Hutchinson here.”  
   
Stunned silence, the proverbial calm before the storm, fell as the man stepped forward holding a single green-tissue-wrapped, long-stemmed red rose. It was the last straw. Envisioning an endless parade of flower-laden delivery people, Hutch snatched up his jacket and half-ran from the room, shoving the rose bearer out of his way as he went. Goddamn Starsky! What the everfuckin' hell had possessed him to pull this stunt? He was half-way to the stairs when he heard the howls of laughter echoing behind him. Face burning, he reached the steps and plunged down them three at a time.  
   
“Hutch! Hey, Hutch! Wait up.”  
   
He paused at the mid-landing and watched his partner's descent, wishing for a moment that he'd trip, then changed his mind in favor of throwing him down the remaining flight.  
   
“Where you going?”  
   
“Away from you.” He turned his back on the grinning face and started down again. “You're crazy.”  
   
“But just think what a great cover I gave you,” Starsky stage-whispered, bouncing along beside him. “I mean, they'll be talking about Stud Hutchinson for months.”  
   
“That kind of talk I can do without. Damnit! I won't be able to show my face in there again without some smart ass making cracks about those fuckin' flowers.” He stopped and met the dancing blue eyes. “And those godawful corny notes. Couldn't you think of anything more original?”  
   
An indignant expression settled over Starsky's face. “You didn't even read the last one. It was really good.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling, making a great show of remembering. “One perfect rose to remember one perfect night.”  
   
Starsky looked at him expectantly, and suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation struck Hutch. He tried to control his laughter, but couldn't. “You are crazy,” he gasped between spasms. “Really insane. Did you see Dobey's face when...when he read that card? Jesus, I thought he was gonna throw the whole damned bouquet at me.” He wiped at his eyes, pulled Starsky into a quick hug, and then held him at arm's length. “But if you ever do that to me again, I'll sell that Torino of yours to the first scrap dealer I set eyes on.”  
   
Starsky grinned at him and shrugged. “Shoulda stayed last night. I wouldn't have had time to plan trouble.”  
   
“Hah!” He shoved the agile body down the last few steps and into the hallway. “Why do I get the feeling that you don't have to plan trouble?”  
   
The desk attendant waved as they walked toward the basement stairs. Hutch threw him a careless salute and held the door open for his partner.  
   
“Guess it's just a talent I have.”  
   
“Or the result of a warped personality.”  
   
“Hey, that's not fair. I've got a lot of good qualities.”  
   
Their voices echoed in the open space of the garage. Hutch leaned closer and whispered in his best Clark Gable drawl, “And frankly, my dear, they're all in your jeans.” He swatted the shapely ass and smiled in satisfaction. A deep rosey-pink stained his lover's face.  
 


End file.
